Boredom can have its consequences
by breadnotangels
Summary: John wakes up to find his living room trashed and bright yellow, with Sherlock as the culprit. Warning: Spanking of a grown male...because we all know he deserves it
1. Chapter 1

John padded bare-footed into the living room, eyes misty and limbs aching from a night's sleep. He looks about himself, and it taken his half-awake mind a few moments to take in the state of the place. 221B Baker Street does not pride itself on keeping a neat and orderly household, but the disarray in which John was witnessing it was ridiculous, even by Sherlock's deplorable standards.

There was stuff...everywhere. The bookcase held no books, its contents was flung onto the floor. The sofa was upside-down with a thick knife slash cut through its side. The coffee table was smashed, wallpaper had been ripped off the walls, and the windows were smeared with bright yellow paint. Strewn across the floor were hundreds of objects; an huge upended bottle of acid, an oil canister, a pig's head, a goldfish bowl containing a fish but no water, a stuffed raven, a suitcases full of what appeared to be animal bones, and a typewriter with most of the keys missing.

And there, in the centre of the abyss, sat in a chair in a dressing down with his eyes fixed on the skull on the mantelpiece, was Sherlock. John picked his way across to him, and fixed him with a thunderous glare.

"For God's sake – What the hell has been going on here?" Sherlock looked up lazily at his friend, noting his furious expression and agitated body language before returning is gaze to the skull and replying, "Going on where?"

John looks at him blankly for a second, licking his lips and folding his arms across his chest.

"Here, Sherlock. Here. In our living room. Or what used to be our living room, before you turned it upside down and painted YELLOW".

Sherlock looks around for a few seconds, clearly confused as to the fuss John was making, before returning his gaze and cocking his head to one side.

"...I couldn't sleep. Sleep is so dull, I don't know how you manage so much of it", he said plainly, and vacates his chair. He walks two paces before he feels firm fingers curl around his upper arm. He looks back and watches as John sits in the seat, and the hand holding his arm creeps down to his wrist.

Sherlock is very talented at predicting the actions of others. But he could say with certainty that at that moment in time, he'd never have predicted being pulled by his wrist forward and across John Watson's lap, in the middle of their living room.

Laying over John's knees, his arms taut against the floor and his head lolling between his shoulder blades, Sherlock snorted in utter contempt.

"Oh dear John, really? Are you going to spank me?"

This was all the invitation John Watson needed. He wrenched up Sherlock's dressing gown to reveal his bare, firm arse and without a word of warning, brought his hand down on the exposed left cheek. He heard a distinct gasp from the man, and a slight wriggle. Taking this as confirmation that he'd made the right choice, John began spanking Sherlock's arse at a steady and careful pace. He watched in an almost detached manner as a light pink began to bloom across Sherlock's arse, and noted that with each slap, Sherlock wriggled just that little bit more.

On the tenth spank, Sherlock gasped much louder than before, before saying quite shakily.

"John.. I...". But John ignored him, and instead continued the spanking, making sure to land the spanks sporadically across his arse, paying special attention to the tops of Sherlock's creamy thighs. He was absolutely furious, and really wanted Sherlock to pay for his appalling behaviour. His own thighs felt particularly warm, and with each spank that rang out, he could feel his cock twitching with interest. Gritting his teeth, John tried to forget this fact, and began to lecture the man laying across his lap, in order to try and distract himself.

"How dare you *SMACK* tear this place apart *SMACK* because you were BORED *SMACK*!"

He felt Sherlock squirm uncomfortably underneath him, and felt satisfaction shoot through his own body as he realised that Sherlock was clearly, humiliated.

"*SMACK* Cannot believe you think you can just *SMACK* do anything you please *SMACK* because you feel like it *SMACK*"

At this point, John shifted slightly to adjust to Sherlock's wriggling, and immediately froze as his leg came into contact with what was clearly Sherlock's hard cock. There was a split second moment in which both men were absolutely still, both apparently trying to comprehend the meaning of such a situation, before something inside John stirred, something that felt oddly like...triumph.

He resumed the spanking with much more vigour, thereby unleashing a series of whimpers from Sherlock, who John was convinced was now bright-red from the sheer humiliation of not only being punished – but for being aroused by it too. And John was glad, because it pleased him to know that this punishment was really affecting Sherlock.

A smug smile twitched on John's lips as he watched the light pink of Sherlock's arse deepen slowly, until it was slightly tinged red.

Sherlock was now quite frantic. "Alright, John! Ahhh, you really, no- John, don't – OW!"

John landed a particularly hard smack on Sherlock's arse.

"Do not speak unless spoken to, Sherlock, I've had enough of that smug tone of yours!"

Sherlock whimpered, and John was surprised to find him actually obey the order. It gave him confidence.

"Why did you do it, Sherlock? *SMACK* There was no point behind it, you just wanted to make a scene *SMACK*. Thousands of pounds worth of damage *SMACK* because Sherlock Holmes *SMACK* is bored?"

Sherlock lets out a sob at this, his self-control deteriorates, and he puts one hand back behind him to try and stop the onslaught on his now painfully stinging arse. His skin is now blushing deep pink and is highly sensitive, even to the cold air between each spank. His cock is begging for friction, and on top of it all, he's so utterly confused as to why he's finding this situation so arousing.

And John simply pins his hand to the small of his back, and carries on.

"Are you bored now, Sherlock? *SMACK* I don't think you are. Maybe that's why you did it. *SMACK* You knew I'd react so you destroyed our living room, just to get yourself off? *SMACK* Do you get off on this Sherlock, *SMACK*, being spanked like a naughty little boy over my knee?"

Sherlock's other hand wraps around John's ankle as he sobs, his words incoherent as his usually entirely suppressed emotions bubble to the surface and explode. His hips buck desperately against John's leg, and his whole body is tense with anger, and humiliation and desire.

John can tell Sherlock needs to be pushed over the edge – he needs this from John, and John is nothing if not reliable.

"Because that's what you are, isn't it Sherlock? You're just a naughty little boy who's just desperate for attention. And you know that you deserve to be punished – you deserve to have this pretty arse spanked bright red don't you?"

Sherlock's whole body is shaking – he's so, so close.

John spanks him a final time, forcing his hips straight forward and giving him the final friction he needs and Sherlock is grasped by an incredibly powerful orgasm that leaves him fighting for breath. For a few seconds afterwards – he's perfectly still, utterly detached from all emotions and simply enjoying the moment. But then the fierce sting of his arse comes back to him, and he feel blood rush to his face as he remember that John has just spanked him like a child in the middle of their living room. He knows that for John to have punished him, for the first time ever, that he really must have overstepped the mark, that maybe he was just desperate for attention from John, that somewhere deep down his body knew that he wanted and needed to be punished and Oh God he had come all over...

His shoulder shook as he began to cry – real tears filled with raw emotion and he couldn't say anything more than "I'm sorry, I'm s-sorry..."

John pushed him gently from his lap onto the mess that was now the floor. He took Sherlock's head in his hands and forced the embarrassed man to look at him.

"It's ok, it's over now – we'll get this place sorted and it will all be fine."

Sherlock sobbed harder. "It's not fine, it's not fine! I'm sorry, I didn't mean – and I didn't think you would actually..."

John hushed him and looked sincerely into his eyes.

"To be honest, I had no idea what I was going to do. I don't know where this leaves us, in terms of... But you're err...forgiven, and we'll sort this place out after breakfast".

Sherlock nods his head, frustrated at himself for not being able to speak properly. He folds his dressing gown tightly back over his bare chest and surveys the rooms with a blank expression.

John stands up and clumsily picks his way back towards the landing. "I'm going to get err...cleaned up. Do you want to talk about...this, when I get back?"

Sherlock looked very uncomfortable for a second.

"Ah." He started, rising to his feet and stepping gracefully off of the pile of books. "Yes, John...perhaps you should hold off of getting clean for a little while."

The doctor frowned. "...why would I do that?"

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and began busying himself with his microscope.

"Because if you thought the living room was bad...I'm not sure you're going to enjoy our newly redecorated bathroom" he said with weak smile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author note: I'm procrastinating, and so decided I'm adding a chapter or two to this old thing, just to finish it off. I swear one day I'll write about Sherlock being a perfectly normal sociopath, but for now, here's some more ill-behaved detective getting what he deserves. Reviews are very much appreciated. **

John took a small step towards Sherlock, and watched with amusement as Sherlock's eyes flickered away from the microscope to survey the doctor, those calculating eyes as clear as ever, but the nervous lick of his bottom lip a complete giveaway as to his emotions.

"Define: 'newly redecorated'" John commanded, placing a hand on the kitchen table, and drumming his fingers against the surface, watching for any change in expression from the detective.

Sherlock sniffed and averted his gaze back to the microscope, although John had a funny feeling he wasn't getting very far with his observation. Rolling his eyes, the doctor turned.

"Fine" he said over his shoulder "I guess I'll just have to find out for myself..."

"John." Sherlock's voice remained perfectly even, but there was no hiding the note of slight panic in his tone. Usually, he never had any issue with annoying John, because most of the time he could never work out how he'd managed to do it in the first place. But with his arse throbbing and sore beneath his dressing gown, and a faint blush still radiating from his prominent cheekbones, he felt very much like a child trying to conceal crayon-scrawled walls from a less-than amused adult.

"Newly redecorated" he said to John's back. "As in, not exactly as it was yesterday..."

John didn't turn around, but took another step in the direction of the bathroom, hearing the creak of a floorboard behind him as Sherlock instinctively followed his movement.

"It's really nothing to worry about-"

"Well if it's nothing to worry about" John interjected. "Then you won't mind showing me, will you?" The doctor turned around to face Sherlock, who was now staring alternately at the ground and a space just above John's head.

"You're going to show me." John ordered, reaching forward to grasp Sherlock's thin wrist and pull him in front. Sherlock stumbled at the force and just stood there, looking lost. John landed a sharp smack on the detective's sensitive backside.

"Women and **children **first, Sherlock. Lead the way."

The detective winced, and moved, his posture much like that of a man walking towards the gallows. From behind him, John rolled his eyes and impatiently nudged Sherlock in the back to encourage a faster pace.

When they reached the bathroom door, Sherlock stopped and wheeled round. Looking down at John, he seemed to be fighting the urge to run away.

"It's really not that bad".

John raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock continued hurriedly.

"But if this does happen to, err, force you to look unfavourably towards me, then perhaps I might suggest we discuss some sort of _alternate_ method by which you could relieve your frustration?"

"Depends on how _unfavourable _the circumstances are. Open the door."

Sherlock did so, opening it as far as it would go and walking as far into the bathroom as possible so that John could join him. The term 'far' is used loosely here, because the bathroom at 221B Baker Street had not been particularly large in the first place. But due to the number of water features that it now furnished, it had become a bit of a tight squeeze. A tall, narrow cascading water fountain sat in the middle of the bath, sploshing water onto the ceramic, where it escaped down the plughole. In fact, every surface was covered in water features of every shape and size. Cherubs, spewing mermaids, gargoyles, Japanese peace fountains. And John was certain he could hear frogs splashing around in the sink.

The doctor turned to stare at the man standing next to him, in utter disbelief.

Sherlock shrugged feebly "Research."

John exploded. "RESEARCH! How did you even get all this up here with me hearing you?! Where did they all come from, I swear to God if they're stolen-"

"Borrowed, John!" Sherlock interjected indignantly.

"THEY'RE IN MY BATHROOM! You've even hooked them up to the water supply somehow, how much is our utility bill going to cost this month?! And another thing, are there frogs in here?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Perhaps one or two."

John's face clouded over, and there was a moment of tense silence. When the doctor spoke, his voice had become dangerously calm.

"Get. This stuff. Out. Of my bathroom. Now. I want it all gone by the time I come home this evening. And I want the living room tidied and repaired as much as it can be. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded quickly, shifting his weight from foot to foot and looking down at John furtively.

"Speak to me, Sherlock, use your words. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand." Sherlock muttered, not even trying to keep the exasperation out of his tone.

"Good. You're going to be one very sorry little boy when I'm through with you, so if I were you I'd drop the tone and do as you're told."

Sherlock started and blushed furiously, trying to hold back the number of insults he wanted to fling at the doctor. He already felt like a very sorry little boy and up until this point, he had been hoping to brush this whole incident under the carpet, and wave it off as 'psychologically curious'. But it looked like the world was currently conspiring against him, and he wouldn't be forgetting this day for a very long time.

"What-" he began, clearing his throat and trying not to sound worried. "What exactly do you mean by 'when you're through with me'?"

John turned and marched off in search of a fresh pair of jeans. He returned a minute later, and smiled at Sherlock's bewildered expression.

"Don't fret, Sherlock. After all- " he said, walking towards the landing and patting his pockets to check for his phone and keys, and looked back at Sherlock with a grin.

"It's really nothing to worry about. "


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock, of course, had not problem in identifying the footsteps that tapped up the stairs of the apartment in Baker Street. As the footsteps drew near to the apartment door, the detective busied himself with trying to look nonchalant, a difficult task when he'd been thinking only of the owner of those footsteps all day.

John took off his jacket and hung it by the door, stepping into the quiet living room of 221B, which was looking a little more normal than it had done that morning. Had it not been for his annoyance with his flat-mate, he would have admitted that Sherlock's ability to change things when he felt like it was impressive. There was little evidence of any sign of a disturbance in the London flat, and had it not been for the smudge of yellow paint on the side of the mantelpiece, the doctor may have even believed the entire thing had been an absurd dream. Ignoring the figure glued to the microscope in his peripheral vision, John turned and walked towards the bathroom, slowly opening the door to reveal a perfectly mundane room, bereft of both fountains and frogs. Smiling to himself, John strode back towards the living room, feeling a little satisfied with the worry he'd obviously instilled in his flatmate. It was unlike Sherlock to bend to the whims of a threat.

Although, John thought as he settled down in the chair he'd sat in earlier that day, it hadn't exactly been a threat. More of a direct order.

The detective did not move from his spot, as he stood regarding slides underneath his microscope, unable to scrutinize the cells with his usual vigour. Stealing a sideways glance at the doctor, he felt a slightly uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. John's body language gave away that he was waiting, rather patiently, for Sherlock to make the first move. But there was something else there, an air of authority which was usually suppressed by the ex-military man, seemed to have risen to the surface, even as he read the newspaper in the comfort of the armless chair. Sherlock, although usually entirely unaware of the expectations of a social situation, could see that John was not going to move. In fact, the doctor was not going to do anything but go about the last remaining hours of the evening as he usually did, ignoring Sherlock's existence entirely.

The ball was very much in the detective's court, and Sherlock hated him for it. His curiosity about John's reaction as much as his own towards the earlier events of the day had been turning over in his mind ever since John had left the apartment that morning. Organising the removal of water monuments and repairing their destroyed living room had given him a lot of time to consider all the factors, and yet he remained entirely stumped and horribly embarrassed about the whole situation. He needed more information.

Still not moving from his spot of not-quite looking through the microscope, Sherlock addressed his flatmate casually.

"I trust you're satisfied?"

John paused from not-quite reading the paper, to regard the detective.

"Almost."

Sherlock tried to keep his tone as one of detached interest.

"Oh?"

John folded the paper and set it down on the floor, watching Sherlock's ever so subtle shift of weight from one foot to the other, as he tried not to appear anxious.

"I need to be certain it won't happen again. And there seems to be only one way of making you understand how to behave."

Sherlock flushed a deep pink, and looked up towards the doctor, who was looking at him sternly.

"Come here, Sherlock."

John's tone made the hairs on the back of the detective's neck stand on end, and a spark shot up his spine. Still, embarrassment far outweighed arousal, and Sherlock calmly shook his head.

John raised an eyebrow. "Come here, you'll go over my knee and get my hand and the ruler. Refuse, and I'll bend you over that kitchen table and put a wooden spoon to good use."

The doctor's voice was low and dangerous. It wasn't a threat, but a promise. There were a few seconds where Sherlock simply stared insolently at the doctor. But the moment John sighed and began to rise out of his chair, Sherlock found himself walking resignedly towards his flatmate, not _quite _ brave enough to call the doctor's bluff. He stood in front of John, arms folded defensively across his chest, and not quite meeting the doctor's gaze.

John gestured towards Sherlock's trouser-clad legs. "Off", he said simply.

The detective was outraged. As if submitting to this ridiculous "punishment" wasn't enough to cause him to die of shame, the doctor was now expecting him to willingly undress himself. Sherlock didn't move.

John rolled his eyes. "Do it yourself, or I'll do it for you."

Sherlock considered which was worse, but waited a split second too long before reacting. John's patience wore out, and he pulled the detective towards him, unbuckling his belt and sliding it out of all the loops, before unzipping Sherlock's fly and pulling his trousers down to his shins. Not waiting for a response, the doctor immediately pulled the detective over his lap, adjusting the position until he was comfortable.

Placing a hand round Sherlock's waist, he gently lifted him ever so slightly, and slid his underwear down to his knees, exposing the detective's slightly pink posterior to the air of the room. Running a hand over the small of Sherlock's back, John addressed his flatmate in a dangerously authoritative tone.

"You're getting exactly what you deserve. This apartment is not your testing ground. You _will _learn to behave yourself."

Sherlock shivered, but said nothing, horribly aware of how John's voice alone seem to arouse him, the mere thought of John controlling how he behaves making his cock grow warm, trapped between his own body and the doctor's denim clad thighs.

The first smack came as a shock, and Sherlock found that it immediately brought back the soreness that had been slowly fading during the day. Squirming, he whimpered as John's hand came down again, imagining the splayed finger marks of the doctor's hand across his rosy flesh. Instinctively, he drew one hand back to protect himself, where yet again it was pinned to his back.

"Oh dear, are you sore already, Sherlock?" John jibed, making Sherlock wriggle with embarrassment.

*SMACK!* Sherlock whimpered louder, moaning as the sting resonated across his arse, mingling with the feeling of soreness that made him blush with embarrassment.

"Ow!" he cried indignantly as the next strike landed, squirming around in John's lap in order to try and evade the inevitable sting of the doctor's strong palm. Suddenly, John's warning voice came from above him.

"This is what brats deserve, Sherlock". Sherlock exhaled with a dry sob, his cock hard and hot underneath him as he tried to block John's voice out, and begged his body to stay still. There was something terrifyingly sexy about how little the doctor's tone made him feel. As John's hand connected with his soft skin yet again, he bit his lip to muffle the moans of desire desperate to escape from him.

There was a pause from above him where Sherlock thought perhaps it was all over. John was leaning slightly to his right, reaching for something that lay on the desk beside them. Then he felt the cold, hard wood of the ruler slide menacingly across his skin.

"No." Sherlock said flatly, the hand trapped in John's grasp twisting to capture the doctor's wrist. His pulse was fluttering rapidly beneath his skin, evidence that he was just as aroused as Sherlock was. Interesting. "Please, John, don't."

The detective could practically hear John raise his eyebrow. "Why?"

Sherlock would have rolled his eyes had he not been feeling so sensitive. "Because you've made your point, I won't do it again I promise!" he whimpered pleadingly.

"You're not in much of a position to be bargaining with me, Sherlock" John observed. "We're not done yet." The detective couldn't quite believe the childish rage that was flaring up inside him, but he felt himself sobbing before he'd even managed to process it.

As the first strike landed, harsh and much less comforting and warm than John's hand, hot tears welled up in the corner of Sherlock's eyes.

"Ow-John, please! Ahh! Stop, I'll be good!"

The ruler left strips of red along Sherlock's upturned arse, and the more worked up the detective became, the more uncomfortably John's cock seemed to throb in his jeans. As the next strike landed, Sherlock burst into real tears, and the doctor was compelled to pause his onslaught.

"Please, John" Sherlock sobbed shakily "I don't want any more – it really hurts."

Sherlock was sure the pulse in John's wrist jumped at these words. But the doctor simply rubbed delicately at Sherlock's skin and said "It's supposed to hurt."

The detective took a second to draw a shuddering breath before replying.

"_Please_. I've learnt my lesson, I'm sore and sorry and I don't want you do be cross with me anymore." And even as he said the words, Sherlock found they were more truthful that he had intended them to be. John's soothing palm against his hot and abused flesh was keeping him comfortably aroused; and he felt oddly content. Until John's voice came from above him.

"Five more." John said plainly, not missing Sherlock's growl of despondence as he felt the wood of the ruler settle against his flesh again.

The first of the five was harder than any John had delivered before, and Sherlock was too shocked at the force to cry initially. That was, until the searing pain caught up with him, and his free hand clutched at John's ankle just for something else to hold onto. The second was as forceful as the first, and the detective squealed as the skin it struck seemed to raise and throb agonisingly, taking far longer to subside than the ones before. The third and fourth landed in quick succession at the very tops of Sherlock's thighs, making him cry harder and almost buck off of John's lap, despite knowing full well that writhing around wouldn't affect the doctor's aim in the slightest. The final strike stung an angry red stripe diagonally across Sherlock's arse, and John immediately dropped the implement in his hand in favour of following the mark with him fingertips. Sherlock cried quietly as he lay across John's lap, unwilling to get up until the doctor moved him.

"It's over," John soothed gently, as he released Sherlock's hand from his back. He wasn't quite as uncomfortable with Sherlock sprawled across him as he had been earlier that day, and he found himself stroking the detective's hair calmly, to try and coax the man out of crying. "Are you alright?"

"Mmm, no," Sherlock sniffed, still not moving from where he was. "I feel funny."

Given Sherlock usually pretentiously extensive vocabulary, this wasn't quite the response John had been preparing for. "...You feel funny?" the doctor repeated, uncertain if he'd heard correctly.

The detective nodded, his hand still curled around John's ankle. He felt his underwear and then his trousers being carefully replaced by the doctor, and did absolutely nothing to aid him in this. He did feel funny, the way he had done when John had been using that belittling tone of voice. Only now the tone was gone, but Sherlock still felt the same.

John frowned. "...Do you want to get up?"

For some reason, the shake of Sherlock's head irritated him, and he smacked him sharply on his trouser-clad arse. "You know how to talk, Sherlock, so use words."

The detective squirmed slightly, and John became instantly aware of how turned on they both still were. "No," Sherlock said sulkily. "I don't want to get up." As if to emphasise this, Sherlock's other hand snaked round the underside of John's thigh, an action that made the doctor's eyes snap open wide. Oh, he thought. I see.


	4. Chapter 4

Still stroking the back of the detective's head, John picked his words carefully before he opened his mouth.

"It can't be very comfortable like that. Come on, don't you have work to be doing?"

Sherlock mumbled something incoherently against John's thigh, and the doctor tutted impatiently. Lifting Sherlock at the waist, John moved the detective off of his lap with care, where he stood looking reproachful and generally embarrassed. His usual pale pallor had been replaced with a pink blush that spread across his tear-stained face. Despite this new position making the height difference between himself and his flatmate all the more obvious, Sherlock didn't look anything like is usual haughty self. Looking down, he watched as John zipped and buttoned his trousers, and began feeding his belt back through the loops at the waistband.

"What did you say?" John murmured distractedly, as the belt got caught a little around the side.

Sherlock simply observed this without helping at all, and replied:

"I said I don't, when you came in I was just pretending."

John sat back in his chair, having finally fastened the belt correctly, and regarded his flatmate cautiously. He was sniffing pathetically, hair falling over his eyes a little, and scuffing the toes of his shoes on the floorboard. His right hand was placed not-so-casually in his back pocket, while his left hung limply at his side. John couldn't imagine him looking _any less_ like Sherlock Holmes.

"Oh" the doctor said nonchalantly, "well there must be something you need to do."

Sherlock stilled for a moment, as if weighing up his options. Then, he looked at John and said simply:

"I need a bath."

And then he just continued to stand there, looking at John like he was waiting for something. And the doctor tried not to blush as the image of Sherlock naked, skin wet and warm in the steam of the bath entered his mind. As the detective stood there, realisation dawned upon the doctor.

I don't know why, John thought in bewilderment, but I'm sure he wants me to do it for him. Completely ignoring how absolutely ridiculous it was that Sherlock seemed to not even be able to do his own trousers up without John's help, the doctor concentrated solely on what was happening, rather than why it was happening. It was much easier to process that way. Maybe it was some observation of psychological values, or an experiment in co-dependency.

Whatever it was, like always, John was going to have to go along with it, and ask questions later.

"You want me to run you a bath?" he asked slowly, watching for any sign that this was not what Sherlock had meant. But the detective just nodded shyly, confirming that whatever he was playing at, he was bloody good at acting the part. John was now forcefully ignoring how aroused he was at the sight of his flatmate acting this way and stood up.

"Come on then," he said with an inclination of his head "let's go."

Sherlock walked in front, much as he had done hours before, but at a far more leisurely pace. So leisurely in fact that John found himself prodding him playfully in the back to get him to move faster, an action that made Sherlock smile, but had no effect on his speed whatsoever. Reaching the bathroom, the detective sat down very gingerly on the lip of the bath, and watched as John knelt down and pushed the plug in, rolling up one of his sleeves and turning on the taps, running his fingers through the water to test the temperature. When he was satisfied, he leant back on his haunches and glanced at the detective, who was running his fingers idly over the tiles on the wall.

John was sure there was no physical medical explanation for what Sherlock was doing, and would have put it down to concussion had it not been for Sherlock's blatant consciousness of what he was doing. This was definitely some sort of game. The doctor wasn't sure if he was comfortable with how willing he had been to play.

Pushing thoughts of his own insanity aside, he took one of Sherlock's swinging feet in hand and began untying the shoelaces, and sliding it gently from the detective's foot. John felt a hand on his shoulder as Sherlock steadied himself on the edge of the bath, and set about methodically undressing the grown man. Sherlock only moved when John asked him to, standing up or moving his arms obediently as he watched John take off and tidily fold his expensive clothes into a neat pile on the floor. John had paused for a moment as he pushed his thumbs into the waistband of Sherlock's underwear, but it seemed they'd pretty much covered that base, so there was no point in being shy.

John quickly reached over to turn the taps off. Putting his professional "naked patient" mindset on, he took Sherlock's elbow and gently coaxed him into the bath. The detective's hissed as the warm water lapped against his sore skin, and the porcelain of the bath felt horribly uncomfortable beneath him. But the temperature was perfect – steam rising from the bath and misting up the mirror on the front of the medicine cabinet just above the sink. Relaxing into the heat, Sherlock tilted his head back, and felt John's wet fingers threading through his hair, massaging product through his locks and then gently rinsing it out. Sherlock wasn't sure if the doctor was aware that he was humming tunelessly through his teeth from concentration, but decided not to mention it. Instead, he let himself be taken care of by his vaguely-confused flatmate, sinking into the warmth and turning information slowly over in his head. He was perfectly aware of how odd the situation was, and also of how strange it was that he had chosen to engineer it. He was also aware of John's willingness to simply go along with it all, and the fact that the doctor was clearly attempting to detach himself from the situation, without much luck. Sherlock had not failed to notice how strangely tight the crotch of John's jeans had become, nor had he missed how the doctor's gaze seemed to drink in every inch of the detective's elegant frame.

"You didn't stop."

Sherlock's words pierced through John's bubble of concentration, and the doctor looked up sharply.

"What?"

Sherlock regarded him curiously, coyly swirling a finger around in the water that covered him, and replying in a conversational tone:

"I asked you, begged you to stop – and you didn't. Why?"

John felt a warm blush ascend along his throat, and a swirl of guilt in the pit of his stomach. But he kept Sherlock's gaze, looking at him steadily.

"Because if you really wanted me to stop, you could have gotten up. I definitely wasn't holding you down, and you might have squirmed around a bit, but you made no real attempt to get away from me –" John paused to watch a blush appear along Sherlock's cheekbones, as the tables were very much turned on him. "-Did you?"

The detective shook his head, not looking at John but rather looking past him, in the vain hope that perhaps if he pretended he couldn't see him, he would cease to exist.

Now John's curiosity was getting the better of him. Sherlock was obviously trying to portray himself as the victim of assault, in order to strike a chord with the doctor.

"You're a good judge of intent, Sherlock. What do you think I might have done if you hadn't asked me whether or not I was satisfied?"

The detective looked at him, calculatingly. He already knew the answer, he had done from the moment John had told him how sorry he was going to be. He knew it from John's character, from his body language, his tone; he'd pieced every detail together to predict what would happen should he refuse to let the doctor punish him.

"...You weren't going to do anything." He said flatly, shifting uncomfortably as the porcelain seemed to suddenly become a lot more painful sitting on the hard porcelain of the bath.

John shrugged. "I certainly wasn't going to bring it up by myself."

Sherlock stood up, looking down at his toes through the water.

"It hurts."

John's reply was the same as it had been before. "Good, it's supposed to." But Sherlock sensed that note of attraction in his voice; the smallest hint that it was a phrase he'd never get tired of saying. The detective's curiosity only grew each time he heard it.

Stepping out of the bath, Sherlock accepted the towel John gave him and tied it round his waist, and left the bathroom without a word. Once in his bedroom, he heard John's footsteps walking towards the kitchen, and then the sound of the kettle being clicked on.

Sherlock was surprised at John's level of control. He was clearly aroused by Sherlock and his behaviour, but had made absolutely no action to suggest that he enjoyed it.

The detective couldn't help but wonder how far he could push his flatmate, until he finally broke and admitted his desire. There was only one way to find out.


End file.
